Baby Feet

Something about a baby's feet epitomizes her fragility, her softness, her newness. I nibble on Elizabeth's toes. I run my fingers over her arches. I kiss her little soles. Her feet are so smooth, so tiny.

Shortly after having Joseph, I wrote:

He's so perfect. I look at his little knees that have never been skinned, his little feet that have never been blistered, his soft skin that has never been burned. He's starting to get tears and as I wipe them away I wish I could shield him, protect him from anything that would cause more tears. I want his world to be a good place. A safe place. At the same time, I want him to experience all life has to offer. Part of that package is hurt.

As I did with her older brother, I look at Elizabeth and wonder how I'm going to be able to protect and shield her from heartbreak, from pain, from disappointment. And, again, I realize that I can't. I can't rob her of her chance to grow stronger and to learn.

Joseph's feet are now dirtied by trips to the playground and beach, by afternoons spent gardening barefoot. His little knees have been skinned and bruised. He's cried tears of pain. He's cried tears of disappointment. And he's laughed.

I look at him and can't believe he was ever as small as his sister. But he was. Smaller, actually. I know the time will come that I'll look at Elizabeth while holding someone's newborn and wonder if she too was ever that tiny. In the meantime, I'm spending my time running my hands over her arms and legs, stroking her soft, downy head and staring with wonder into wide blue eyes that look back at me with the most incredible trust.